


Ground Rules

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Series: A Firm Hand [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demon Blood Addiction, Detox, Dom Bobby, Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonsexual Relationships, Praise Kink, Spanking, Sub Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6522328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's not equipped to properly deal with Sam's addiction and detox - not that Bobby is either. The old man has a plan, and Sam's just desperate enough to give it a try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ground Rules

**Author's Note:**

> I don't claim to be an expert on addiction and detox. I never got professional help of any kind for my addictions, and this is merely an idea I wanted to explore.  
> Also note, that this is a prequel to A Firm Hand and the order of this series has been changed to reflect that.

Sam’s shivering, curled up beneath one of the thick, woolen army blankets Bobby’d left in the panic room for him. He’s sweaty, clammy, and miserable. A part of him aches for his brother, but Dean’s still too angry to want to even be near Sam right now. Sam remembers yelling, fighting with his brother, but it’s all too swirled up in the hallucinations caused by his forced detox for him to know what was real and what wasn’t.

 

His stomach drops when he hears the faint rumble of the Impala. Sam wants to get out of bed, wants to run after his brother, and beg Dean not to leave him, but he’s too weak to even stand properly. Instead, he waits as the sound of Bobby’s footsteps steadily approach him, and the lock grinds on the panic room door.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Yeah, Bobby.”

 

“Brought you some food, son. You should eat.” Food turns out to be clear broth, hot enough to chase away some of Sam’s chill, but light enough to avoid upsetting his his stomach. Bobby coaxes part of a cool glass of water down him before he gets up. “You want to come upstairs?”

 

Sam sighs, looking down and realizing his hand is trembling. He clenches it into a fist to get it to stop. “Dean’s gone.” Not a question, and Bobby’s sigh is just more confirmation of what Sam already knows.

 

“Yeah, he’s gone. Your brother needs time to cool his jets, get himself back together. If he hadn’t gone himself, I woulda made him go. You both need the space right now. You comin’?”

 

It takes some doing, getting Sam up the stairs on his wobbly legs. He has to take a break in the living room, shaking and shivering even though the house is plenty warm. Bobby takes most of his weight when he gets back on his feet, grumbling slightly about overgrown kids by the time he gets Sam up to his bedroom. Dean’s bed is empty, of course, blankets a mess since his brother left in a hurry. Sam’s a little embarrassed to need Bobby’s help in changing from his sweaty clothes into shorts and a soft sleep shirt, but the man doesn’t even flinch. He just tucks Sam into bed like he’s all of 5 again, leaving the door cracked so the hallway light spills into the darkened room.

 

Sam falls asleep with the word _abomination_ scrawling itself across his brain.

 

* * *

 

 

“Damnit boy,” Bobby chastises, barely catching Sam when he stumbles on the last step. The older man is just close enough to catch him, saving him from probably busting his face open on the floor. “Shoulda called for help.”

 

“I thought I could make it.” Sam’s throat is tight, misery making his breath catch. Bobby steadies him and stays alongside as Sam moves toward the kitchen.

 

“Think you can eat?”

 

“...Coffee?” Sam asks hopefully. Bobby just snorts and nods.

 

“Yeah, ‘course there’s coffee. You should eat somethin’, tho. Need to get your strength back.”

 

In the end, Sam ends up stirring brown sugar and milk into oatmeal, eating each bite slow and careful between sips of coffee. He can’t quite manage a whole bowl, but he feels a little more solid with food in his belly. His hands still shake when he reaches for his cup, a tremble that Bobby obviously notes but doesn’t comment on. Sam can’t deny he’s grateful.

 

“How long can I stay?”

 

Bobby looks up from the paper he’s reading, frowning hard at the younger man before his face softens. “Long as you want, son. However long you need.”

 

Sam’s surprised how quickly his throat goes tight and his eyes fill with tears. Despite Bobby’s kindness, Sam half-expected to be tossed out now that Dean was gone and he was over the worst part of the detox. He drops his eyes to the bowl and nods, not wanting Bobby to see his face and not quite able to talk.

 

“Sam. Look at me.” And damn if Bobby doesn’t wait until Sam meets his gaze to keep talking. “You made a mistake, son. No doubt about that. But your brother and me? We ain’t saints either. Now I don’t blame you for being upset that Dean’s gone or being afraid that I don’t want you here, but you gotta know that I’m not gonna make you leave til you’re good and ready. Bein’ an addict ain’t somethin’ to take lightly, and leavin’ too soon is only gonna make it harder on you. Got me?”

 

“Yeah, Bobby. I got you.”

 

* * *

 

 

For the first few days, Sam concentrates on trying to eat and sleep and bathe himself. Time seems to drag out like taffy and zip by like light all at once, and it’s unsettling to not be sure what day or time it is.

 

Sam’s making a sandwich, just lettuce, cheese, and deli meat, when the craving hits. His knees buckle, stomach clenching so hard he feels like he could puke. With shaking hands, he sets down the knife he’d been using and tries to brace himself on the counter. It passes after a while, thankfully before Bobby comes back in from the garage, and Sam manages to convince himself that the sandwich is what sates it.

 

They get harder to ignore and make excuses for as the days pass by. Sam knows he’s edgy, getting angrier and angrier every time Bobby tries to coddle him or ask what’s wrong. He’s barely made it two weeks after that first incident in the kitchen before he snaps.

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he bites out, slamming his coffee cup down so hard on the table the handle snaps off in his grip.

 

“Go to your room, Sam.”

 

The words are unexpected, so ridiculous Sam almost laughs aloud. “You’re joking.”

 

“No, I ain’t. You wanna act like a kid, breaking my things and being mouthy, you can go to your room. Now, git.”

 

Fury is the only thing that propels Sam out of the room and up the stairs; he wants to hit something, vent his anger, but a part of him knows that he can’t hit Bobby, that he’ll only regret it later. Embarrassment creeps in after a while, bleeding in as the anger bleeds out. He’s sorry about the cup and for acting like a jerk, and he presses his thumb against the tiny cut broken porcelain left behind on his hand. Confusion settles over it all when Sam finds he can’t make himself leave the room, not even when it’s time for supper. Only Bobby’s yell of “Supper time, Sam!” seems to set him free, and he quietly makes his way down the stairs.

 

There’s a bowl of chili waiting at his place at the table, cornbread in a pan in the middle. Sam’s stomach growls, but he can’t quite make it over the threshold.

 

“I’m sorry, Bobby. I shouldn’t’ve acted like I did. I’ll replace the cup if you want.” It’s hard to keep eye contact, but Sam forces himself to as Bobby studies him.

 

“I got plenty of cups, Sam. And you’re right, you shouldn’t be actin’ like that, not at your age. Apology accepted. Now siddown and eat.”

 

Sam tells himself his . . . tantrum is going to be a one time thing. He’s not bargaining for the blood cravings to keep hitting and the way they spiral his mood down and flare his temper up. Bobby continues to punish him, sending him to his room on a regular basis until Sam’s pondering getting one of the beater cars in the lot running and high-tailing it out of there. His fury is closer and closer to the surface every day, and he feels like he’s going to lose control if he stays in this house any longer.

 

“And just where the hell do you think you’re going?”

 

Bag in hand, Sam whirls, anger bright under his skin. “Anywhere. I’m not a fucking kid, and I’m tired of you treating me like one.” Ruby’s number is still etched in his brain, and he knows he’ll be calling her as soon as he’s out of Sioux Falls.

 

“You know that’s a bad idea, son. You’re cravin’, aren’tcha? Itching under your skin, like to drive you mad.”

 

“You don’t know anything.”

 

“‘Bout addiction? I know plenty. And you leavin’ isn’t a good idea, Sam, and deep down, I think you know it. Just take a moment to stop and think.”

 

Bobby’s voice is calm, placating; he’s trying to soothe but only manages to set Sam off. He drops his bag on the floor and is out the door before Bobby can stop him. There’s an old Ford and a crowbar, and Sam’s hands are raw and his muscles sore by the time he’s done. He doesn’t even realize he’s bleeding until he’s back in the house and Bobby’s digging glass out his cheek.

 

“Feel better?” the old man asks, swiping an alcohol wipe over the cut.

 

“Yeah,” Sam admits in a small voice.

 

“Mm. There’s a sandwich in the fridge for you. Eat and go to your room. And unpack your damn bag.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bobby sits him down in the living room the next day, tense look on his face and Sam’s sure he’s finally fucked up enough that Bobby’s going to ask him to leave.

 

“I’ve been doing some readin’, and I think I want to try somethin’ else besides sending you to your room. It ain’t . . . conventional but somethin’ tells me it might work.”

 

Sam’s quiet as Bobby softly explains his plan, a system of rewards and punishments and a new lifestyle for Sam as long as he’s staying here. A new lifestyle that involves him obeying Bobby’s commands and kneeling at his feet.

 

“You want me to be your sub,” Sam says flatly.

 

“In sense.”

 

“And you won’t . . . you don’t want-”

 

“God, no, boy. I’m sure the girls find you pretty, but I sure as hell don’t.”

 

“Can - Can I think about it?”

 

Bobby leans forward enough to pat Sam’s shoulder. “You take whatever time you need. It’s just an idea, Sam, and if you don’t think it’ll work, I’m not about to force you.”

 

* * *

 

Maybe it’s a fit of madness. Maybe it’s the desperation clawing at his chest when another craving hits. Either way, Sam says yes.

 

Bobby puts a pillow from one of the couches on the floor by his recliner after lunch, settling in with a book and a glass of water. “Sit, Sam.”

 

He feels a little ridiculous doing it, but the gnawing in his belly and the shaking of his hands gets Sam kneeling down on the pillow. Bobby only leaves him for an hour, but it’s long enough to make Sam’s knees ache. He’d settled into a slow breathing rhythm, concentrating on that since he wasn’t allowed to move or talk without Bobby’s express permission.

 

“Better?”

 

Sam’s surprised that, yeah, he is. The craving is still there, but with far less of the anger and anxiety that normally follows. He nods, eyes focused on the floor.

 

“Speak up, now.”

 

“Yessir,” Sam blurts immediately, face pinking.

 

“Good boy.” Soft words, gentle as Bobby tests the waters. Both of them can tell when some of Sam’s tension bleeds out.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam’s grateful that Bobby doesn’t expect him to crawl everywhere. He spends most of his time on his feet, working with the older man in the garage, or cleaning and cooking inside the house. He’s never been praised or punished this much and this consistently in his life, but there’s no denying how it settles the mess inside his head. If only he could remember that when the worst of the cravings hit.

 

“Kneel, Sam. Til you settle down.”

 

Sam grits out a “No,” fully intending to stomp out, but a strong hand stops him in his tracks. Bobby’s never been rough with them, so the slap across his ass startles Sam.

“I said kneel, boy.”

Fury bubbles under Sam’s skin, white hot and tinged with sulfur. He tries to swallow it down, closing his eyes and breathing deep as he sinks to his knees. The wooden floor is unforgiving beneath his legs, and he knows that they’ll ache if he stays here too long, but Sam just fists his hands and drops his gaze to the floor.

There’s no way to cover up the shiver that courses through him when Bobby runs a heavy hand through Sam’s hair and murmurs “Good boy.”

 

Bobby lets him up when Sam’s restless shifting finally ceases, giving him a quick hug before letting him go. Sam heads upstairs to change, nodding at the older man before heading out to take his evening run around the lot.

 

* * *

 

Dean calls once in awhile, checking in after whatever hunt he’s been on or asking for some research. Two or three calls go by before he asks to talk to Sam once he’s done with Bobby.

 

“Hey, Sammy.” Sam’s big brother never has been good with talking about his emotions, and the awkward tension in his voice is clear. “How are you?”

 

“I’m-I’m good, Dean. Bobby’s really been helping me with . . . everything. How’s the job?”

 

Silence for a few moments, then a long sigh. “It’s okay. Not the same without you, man. These other hunters, they’re not bad, but they’re not you, you know?”

 

Sam manages a soft laugh. “Yeah, I hear you.”

 

“Sam. I’m sorry I left the way I did man, but Bobby he - he had a point. I needed to get myself together and so did you, and us being together just wasn’t . . .”

 

“Wasn’t working. Yeah. For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry too. About Ruby and the blood and the lies and - I wasn’t right, Dean. I thought I was, and I know that doesn’t mean much, but I know I wasn’t.”

 

“Yeah, well I wasn’t either, kid. We’ll figure it out, okay? I’ll see you soon. Got a lead on a shifter to take care of, then I’m gonna try to swing back before something else pops up. I’ll call before I get there.”

 

“Okay. Just come home in one piece, alright?”

 

“Will do. Bye, Sammy.”

 

“Bye, Dean.”

 

Bobby gives Sam his cell phone back the next day. “Your brother’s got his own ringtone. Whatever I’ve got you doing, you always answer when he calls, clear?”

 

“Yessir. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

A hunter stumbles into Bobby’s lot one afternoon, bloody and banged up, babbling about a run in with a demon just over the Iowa border. Sam calls Dean, giving him what details they’re able to get out of the man before he passes out.

 

“C’mon. Need you to help me stitch him up,” Bobby says quietly. Sam does fine with the long gash along the man’s bicep, stitches neat and even. He doesn’t do as well when he goes to cut away the rest of the bloody shirt only for his nose to pick up the sharp bite of sulfur.

 

Sam doesn’t realize he’s shaking, staring at the stained material in his hands until Bobby yanks it away from him. He gets turned around and pushed out of the kitchen, nearly falling on his face before he catches himself.

 

“You can either go to your room or kneel on your cushion, but you don’t leave this house, you hear me? Sam?”

 

“Yeah, Bobby.” Sam shakily makes his way toward the stairs, fully intending to go up and lock himself in his room until Bobby can get rid of every trace of demon blood in the house. Somehow, he finds himself running out the door, not sure just where the hell he’s going until he’s scrabbling at the door handle of one of the trucks he’d been working on this summer. The keys are in the house, but Dean taught Sam how to hotwire when he was a kid, and he drops down to reach  under the steering column.

 

“Don’t do this, Sam,” Bobby calls out over the distance between them. “Just come on home with me, son, and everything will be just fine.” Boots crunch on gravel as Bobby approaches, and Sam’s frantically fiddling with the wires beneath the dash when a strong hand lands on his shoulder. “Sam. Stop.”

 

Tapping the wires together one more time, Sam’s surprised to hear himself sob when the truck sputters but doesn’t turn over. Bobby hauls him up and toward the house, fisting his hands tight in Sam’s shirts when he starts to struggle. Sam gives up when Bobby manages to drag him over the threshold. He goes obediently when Bobby shoves him toward the couch, landing hard enough to make the boards creak.

 

“Stay. Here. Ed still needs stitchin’ and I don’t have time to be chasing your fool self.”

 

Sam nods numbly, shaking like a leaf and clenching his fists hard enough in his lap to make his nails dig into his palms. The pain helps, but it’s not enough - it’s not _right_.

 

He stays on the couch until a friend of Ed’s comes to pick him up, a rough old hunter that Sam met once with Dad. The man gives Sam an odd look, but thanks Bobby for the help and supports Ed out the door.

 

“Sam. Stand up.”

 

There’s no way for Sam to get himself to look at Bobby. He wants to sink through the floor, or throw himself down on it and beg forgiveness, but all the can do is stare at old, familiar work boots and shake. Those boots move away, and Sam hears a creak as Bobby settles onto the couch Sam just vacated.

 

Bobby grabs his hand, leading him forward and tugging Sam down over his lap. “You’re gonna get ten, okay? You can safeword if you have to.” Without a single word more, Bobby lays into Sam’s ass. Every bit of his hard-earned strength is evident as heat and pain flare under each spank. Sam breaks on eight, flat out crying as Bobby delivers the last two spanks. Pulling him up and onto the couch, Bobby cradles Sam as he sobs, soothing him until his tears have petered out into occasional hiccups.

 

The flannel beneath Sam’s face is damp from tears and his nose is stuffy. He sniffles a little, only to have a handkerchief pressed into his hand. Bobby holds him until he’s calm and pulls away on his own. Sam still feels shaky, but his hands aren’t trembling with need like they were before. He feels loose and exhausted, too much so  to even manage to feel embarrassed.

 

“You alright, Sam?”

 

“Yeah, I - I think so. I’m sorry, Bobby.”

 

“I know you are, son. And you took your punishment well. It’s okay. Just don’t ever do that again huh? M’getting too old to be haulin’ your ass around.”

 

Sam gives a watery laugh, but Bobby’s smiling at him when he finally looks up. “I’ll try.”

 

“Good enough. Now, you want some grub or a nap?”

 

“. . . nap?” Sam asks hesitantly.

 

“Sure kid. You good with sleepin’ on the couch? I’d like to keep you close if you don’t mind.”

 

Sam suspects Bobby’s only asking for his sake, but he agrees all the same. There’s a heavy afghan draped over the back, and Sam feels warmth settle in his chest when Bobby unfolds it to drape it over Sam’s lanky frame.

 

He wakes up, not to supper, but to a breakfast of blueberry pancakes and bacon. His mouth is fuzzy with sleep, and he stumbles off to pee, brush his teeth, and splash cold water over his face. Bobby’s working on what looks like the better half of a pot of coffee by the time Sam joins him.

 

“Thought I was gonna have to roll you outta bed. Doin’ okay?”

 

“Yeah I guess I was just more tired than I thought. Thanks for the pancakes.” Blueberry has always been Sam’s favorite, something he’s gotten rarely on the road. He eats until he can’t anymore, the first time he’s really filled up on food in a long, long time. Bobby fills a thermos with coffee as Sam cleans up, his turn to do dishes since Bobby cooked.

 

“Margie down the road needs some wood cut. You think you’re up to it?” Sam gets sent out the door with the thermos and a lunchbox. Margie’s 80 if she’s a day, tough as nails and thin as a beanpole, and she’s seen Sam and Dean around enough to not even question it when Sam shows up on her doorstep instead of Bobby. She works him til his muscles are like jello, and sends him off with pie for Bobby and a peach cobbler for himself.

 

Bobby’s with a customer when Sam gets back, so he just waves and heads on it. Swinging into the kitchen to drop off the desserts, he heads right upstairs to shower. It hits him when he looks in the mirror. His eyes don’t look as hard as they had the last time he’d really taken the time to care, and his face is fuller than it’s been since Dean died. Sam looks . . . healthy. Tired, sure, but healthy. It’s a strange contrast to how terrible he’d felt last night.

 

Changing clothes, Sam grabs his dirty stuff and loads jeans and darks into the wash. He even manages to make a late lunch for both him and Bobby. It’s not much, just spaghetti with sauce from the can, but the mushrooms and garlic taste good on his tongue anyway.

 

“You did good today, boy. You wanna sit with me while I do some readin?” Bobby says once the supper dishes are done and leftovers packed away. It’s the first time he’s asked instead of telling.

 

“I’d like that.” Sam settles onto his cushion, cross-legged instead of on his knees. He drifts in the comfort of well-worked muscles, a full belly, and the steady rustle of paper as Bobby reads. Dean calls about half an hour in, and Bobby hands Sam the phone so he doesn’t have to move.

 

“I’m on my way back, Sammy. You and Bobby make sure you got a soft spot for me to land and some grub, alright?”

 

Sam looks up at Bobby, pinking up at the warm smile the old man gives him. “Sure thing, Dean. See you soon.”

 


End file.
